


The Fellowship Of Some Other Thing

by Grundy



Series: Daughters of Celebrían [6]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Not The Fellowship, War of the Ring, Who wants to go balrog hunting?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Estel and Legolas were going with the Ring. But Anariel and the Scoobies didn't feel left out - they had their own plans for the War.





	1. Marching As To War

**Author's Note:**

> This story opens after [Chapter 3 of "Fate of the Peredhil" - We Happy Few](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5554187/chapters/12899254).
> 
> Also, please note that while the warning does not apply to the early chapters, it is there for a reason. Not everyone's getting out of this one alive.

It was easy, those first few days, to forget what they were doing. The skies were not yet so dark or the threat so imminent that they could not have imagined themselves on another trip to Lothlorien or the Woodland Realm. In more peaceful times, they had often gone a roving.

Indeed, even in those bygone days their travels had not always been without danger at journey’s end. The perils of Sunnydale might have been more frequent, but Middle Earth had its own risks, and they have long worked to make their world safer. They have fought orcs, slain dragons, and reconnoitered Mordor.

But while they were five, as they had been before, they were not the same five. Glorfindel rode with them, and while he probably would have been there in any case, it was hard not to think of him riding in what ought to have been Tara’s place – even if Tara would certainly never have ridden point as Glorfindel currently did.

Buffy had yet to forgive herself her slowness that day, even if Willow had assured her almost from the first that it was not her fault. She was the one with the superhuman – superelven, even – senses and reflexes. Yet they had not been enough. Had she been just a fraction of a second quicker, had she but seen that arrow sooner…

She cannot overlook that her goddaughters have already lost one mother. Nor can she ignore that she may be leading Willow, Xander, and Anya to their deaths. Her little sister might have thought she had succeeded in keeping it from her, but Buffy knew what she had seen. Foresight might come to Tindomiel rarely, but on the occasions it did, it usually ran true.

_They will not return_.

She cannot bear the thought that their eyes have looked on Imladris for the last time.

_We have defied prophecies before_ , Willow pointed out silently.  _And if we do not this time, as long as we win, would it really be so bad?_

Buffy glanced to the side, meeting her eyes. Willow’s smile was sadder than it once had been, but she counted it a victory that she could smile still.

_Anya already told Estel, rather forcefully, why it is we must do this,_ Willow continued. _She may have focused more on the ‘for the children’ part than the ‘this is what we do’, but she wasn’t wrong. We are all agreed._

_What of your daughters?_ Buffy asked.

Tara and Willow’s girls may be peredhil but they have always seemed more elven than mortal, aging slower and learning faster than mortal children. And just as elven children would, they have always stayed close to their parents. With Tara’s death, Califiriel has turned as much to Glorfindel as she has to Willow, needing the support of her surviving parents to weather the loss.

Willow’s smile dimmed a bit, but held.

_Califiriel will choose the life of the Eldar, I think_ , she said thoughtfully, _even if their choice is not forced by the war. And I suspect she chooses for both of them, much as it was for your brothers. If I do not return, they will grieve. But they will go West with Glorfindel. I think you will still be godmothering for many years to come. And still explaining it to elves who do not understand._

‘Godparents’ were not an elven concept. Despite all the death and destruction of the first age, there had never been any formal system of ensuring young elves had someone looking after them. If they had no kin at hand, they became the responsibility and concern of the entire community.

_That was_ not _what I meant,_ Buffy sighed.

_I know. But it is an answer all the same,_ Willow replied.

“I think you’ve spent too much time around elves,” Buffy told her.

Willow laughed.

“Fine, after we take care of this, let’s spend some time in Gondor,” she said lightly. “I should like to see Estel kinging.”

Xander snickered.

“I’m just waiting for the right moment to break out a ‘you may be king, but I can still turn you over my knee, sonny’,” he grinned. “And seeing as his kids are going to be sadly deficient in mortal kin, I plan on appointing myself the fun uncle.”

“Yes,” Anya sniffed, “because with the twins around they will certainly not have uncles who will get them into mischief.”

“Elven uncles are not quite the same thing,” Xander pointed out. “Even if they have had a recent reminder of the differences between elflings and human kids. Remember how confused they were with Jesse?”

Buffy snickered, because the first few years of Jesse were something she was going to get mileage out of for the rest of her immortal days. The twins hadn’t been around many infants of either kindred for the last several centuries if not longer. (Tindomiel might be young, but she’d arrived at Imladris already walking, talking, and potty-trained.) Tasariel and Califiriel were several years older than Jesse and Joy, but they had been more elven than edain from their earliest days – not to mention, being girls, pee fountains weren’t really within their capabilities.

“Besides, unless they wait years to have children, Jesse and Joy will be available to serve as older kin,” Anya continued. “You won’t need to be a bad influence, you will need to be the responsible father scolding his children for getting the young princes and princesses of Gondor in trouble!”

At that, Willow and Buffy looked at each other and laughed. While Xander was by no means an irresponsible parent, they couldn’t picture him keeping a straight face for such a scolding.  It was far easier to imagine him egging them on.

“Xander, it’s your turn to pick,” Willow called. “And you are _not_ allowed to go with ‘The Song That Gets On Everybody’s Nerves’.”

They’ve been taking turns picking songs, nearly all of them from their Sunnydale days, though they’ve cheerfully sung elvish tunes as well when it was Glorfindel’s turn to choose. He’d taught them several Noldorin songs from the First Age. Buffy had rather liked the one about Fingolfin’s ride, and Xander had demanded to know why they hadn’t been taught the ballad about the Dagor Aglareb sooner – to which Glorfindel had answered that it was a soldiers’ song, not for times of peace.

“Don’t worry, I’m saving that one for Sauron,” Xander replied. “Hmm…how about-”

That was when Anariel’s ears caught the sound.

At the focused look on her face, her mortal siblings were instantly on guard, drawing swords as she nocked an arrow.

But it was no foe who stepped forth from the shadows beneath the trees.

“Haru!”

Makalaurë was not only leading a horse, but wearing armor and carrying a sword, though none of them had known he had either.

“ _Aiya,_ Nairallë.”

“Haru, what are you doing here?” Buffy demanded. “Not that I am not happy to see you…”

She had told her grandfather some years ago what she planned to do, and even asked him if he would ride with her, but received no definite answer. She had thought this, like ‘please bring yourself to Imladris or Lothlorien so everyone can stop worrying about you’, would be one of those things he shrugged off. Even Tindomiel hadn’t been able to pester him out of his hermit ways.

He smiled, but it was the most melancholy one they had ever seen.

“I heard the last princes of the Noldor on these shores were riding to war,” Makalaurë replied. “And I remembered that I was one of them. I would fight at your side, if you still wish it.”

She smiled.

“Why would I not wish your company?” she asked.

He smiled, and gave her a slight bow before mounting.

Xander frowned.

“I still get to pick the next song, right? Because I’m pretty sure Maglor’s gonna go with his greatest hit, and the Noldolantë takes _forever_.”

Anya and Willow both sighed at his lack of tact, though Makalaurë seemed as unbothered as ever by it, and possibly slightly amused.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s still your pick. Glad to see you have your priorities in order.”

“Excellent. I’m gonna go with ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’.”

The girls all groaned. Glorfindel looked curious. Makalaurë simply raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on, what could possibly be more appropriate?” Xander asked.

“Just about anything,” Anya snapped, smacking him on the arm.

“Ok, ok, ‘It’s the End of the World As We Know It’ then!”

_He keeps it up and Anya may just save the balrogs the bother_ , Buffy said to Willow privately. _I’m almost surprised he didn’t go with ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’._

_Give him time,_ Willow replied. _I think he may be saving that one for later as well._

“Hey, did we ever make any progress on what to call ourselves?” Willow asked, defusing the situation. “I mean, if the other team gets to be ‘The Fellowship’, what are we?”

“The ones who got the easy job,” Buffy replied with a grin. “Also, the people who do not have certain words in their vocabulary.”

Xander nodded.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten,” he assured the girls. He’d mentioned the Ring – once – outside of the Council and gotten a stern talking-to from Elrond about how that absolutely could not happen once they left the safety of Imladris.

“I don’t see why we need another name,” Anya said. “We are the Scoobies.”

“Glorfindel isn’t a Scooby!” Xander protested. “Neither is Maglor. So unless you’re volunteering to teach them the dance, we need a name that reflects the whole team.”

“What’s a _Scooby_?” Makalaurë asked Glorfindel quietly.

“They are,” Glorfindel replied. “And that is the most sensible answer you will get on the subject. Also, I am _not_ doing that dance.”

Buffy suppressed a snicker. Her grandmother’s cousin felt that the Snoopy Dance was beneath his elven dignity.

“The A-Team?” Willow suggested. “We do love it when a plan comes together.”

“Wait, there’s six of us now,” Xander exclaimed. “The Dirty Half-Dozen!”

“When have you ever seen a dirty elf?” Anya objected.

As Xander, Willow, and Anya continued to debate the relative merits of various potential names, mostly based on movies, Glorfindel moved to ride closer to Buffy.

“Are we to expect anyone else?” he asked, glancing at Makalaurë.

“No,” Buffy replied quietly. “This is it.”

“We are too few, Nairallë.”

She smiled, but sadly.

“We are enough to do our country loss.”

“The words of Master Shake-spear?” Glorfindel asked.

“Yes. Remind me to read you the Saint Crispin’s Day speech sometime.”

“He today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother,” Glorfindel quoted, much to her surprise. His smile was slightly smug. “I know it. Tindomiel told me she thought the story of Henry the Fifth might be appropriate since I planned to accompany you. Only she referred to it as the 'band of buggered'.”


	2. Into The Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of these chapters are Fic A Day efforts, so length varies somewhat. This is one of the shorter ones.

If Anariel seemed somewhat hesitant as they passed into the borders of Thranduil’s kingdom, her mortal brother and sisters did not notice it. Glorfindel did. While he did not comment on it, he privately agreed with her that she might be pushing her luck in the Woodland Realm.

Though Thranduil was one of the rare Sindarin nobles willing to make the distinctions between various factions of the Noldor, it didn’t mean he was ever truly pleased to see Glorfindel.  Thranduil was not only one of the last remaining of the Iathrim nobility, he was old enough to have known Menegroth – and survived its destruction.  He had never thought well of the Noldor, and if he was honest, Glorfindel had to admit that they hadn’t given him much reason to.

 Thranduil suffered even Galadriel mainly on tolerance, as his older cousin Celeborn’s much loved wife. She, for her part, took care never to be overly Noldorin in his presence, though she rarely bothered to tone herself down for anyone else. It was as though the two had an unspoken truce they maintained for Celeborn’s sake. Personally, Glorfindel found it a bit ridiculous, given that he knew Thranduil’s father Oropher had been more than passing fond of Galadriel, and even saved her life in the wake of the Second Kinslaying.

So it took no foresight to know that Thranduil’s reaction to his young kinswoman bringing Maglor Fëanorion, who had the blood of not only Alqualondë but Menegroth and Sirion on his hands, who had still not been forgiven after all these years for the fate of Elros – the rightful Sindaran – was _not_ going to be pleasant.

It might have been wiser to split up, with the grandsons of Finwë taking the long way around to the north, while Anariel ran her father’s messages to Thranduil, and then rendezvous at Long Lake.  He had privately suggested it, but Anariel had been unwilling to risk any delay that separating into two parties might cause – or that they might not be able to rejoin each other.

He had been unable to argue. This venture of hers was mad enough with three elven warriors. With a single elf, it would be futile, even suicidal. He did not agree with Anariel’s reliance on Willow’s power. Her trust in her sworn sister did her credit, but three mortals will be of no account against an army, let alone a balrog. Anariel expected to face both - and possibly more than one balrog.

Every day the danger only increased, as Sauron summoned all dark creatures to him in preparation for all-out war. Before much longer, even Lothlorien and the Woodland Realm would find themselves under siege. Part of the reason they came this way was to sound the final warning. They could not speak of the Ring, of course, but they could caution Thranduil, as well as Brand of Dale and the King Under the Mountain that the War was imminent, and give Thranduil news of his son.

He could see the tension in Anariel’s shoulders as they approached the Woodland King’s halls. Fortunately, the guards on duty were all young, unlikely to know at a glance that one of the elves approaching was among the most infamous of the Kinslayers.

The faint hope that they might get out of this unscathed lasted only until Thranduil came out to greet them.

His eyes narrowed dangerously at the sight of the two grown elves, and Glorfindel could practically hear him calling them every filthy name the Sindar had ever invented for the despised Exiles. Then his eyes settled on Anariel.

She flinched.

Though he knew she had faced far more fearsome sights than an angry kinsman, for once, she did look somewhat intimidated, and Glorfindel could see the plea in her eyes – _please don’t do this in front of them._

He did not understand the words Thranduil snapped at her – the Sindar king chose to use an Iathrim dialect few if any Noldor had ever been taught – but the tone was clear enough.

Anariel meekly followed in Thranduil’s wake as he came as close as any elf lord would to stomping, gesturing irritably to an attendant to see to the rest of his guests.

It never ceased to fascinate Glorfindel that out of all her kin, Thranduil was the only one who had ever managed to scold Elrond’s middle daughter with any degree of success. Exasperating as it might be in this instance, it was healthy that at least _someone_ called her to account.

Besides, she was going to need the practice. He suspected whatever conversation she was currently having with her purely Sindarin kinsman was going to be repeated writ large in the Undying Lands. He could only imagine Elu Thingol’s reaction to his small descendant claiming Maglor Fëanorion as grandfather.

“What just happened?” Willow asked, sounding utterly bemused.

“He did not seem happy to see us,” Anya said, sounding as if she was trying to decide if she should be insulted or not.

“Is it me, or is Buff in trouble?” Xander replied. “Because I’m having visions of being called to the principal’s office. Did any of you guys cut class lately?”

“I should not have come,” Makalaurë said quietly.

Glorfindel sighed. While her explanation of what exactly she expected to face in the East had been extensive, it seemed she had not enlightened the mortals about elven politics. Or warned her ‘grandfather’ that they’d be passing through a Sindarin realm.

“What just happened is that Anariel has been called onto the royal carpet,” he said resignedly to the mortals. “Yes, she is in trouble- and she is well aware why.  She may even deserve it. It is not you that Thranduil was not happy to see. Do not let it trouble you, it is nothing for any of you to worry about.”

At least, he hoped it was nothing for them to worry about. The three of them have been here before, and from what he knew, Thranduil had been a gracious host and treated them with every courtesy –  which probably made seeing his stern side for the first time all the more surprising.

  _As for_ you _, cousin,_ he added speaking mind to mind, _if you can’t handle a single Sindarin princeling on the Hither Shores, how do you plan to weather the storm of Thingol’s temper?  One is required to come to terms with the events of one’s life before being released from the Halls, but  even so I  cannot see any of the Iathrim taking the news that their littlest princess is your champion joyously, their King least of all. And_ they _will not be able to console themselves with the idea that you may shortly die a painful death._

At least Thingol couldn’t take Anariel’s names – although something extremely irrevent in Glorfindel, a deep-down part that had always resented Thingol’s high-handedness, would like to see her reaction if he tried. He’s not sure if she would take to her mannish name or simply dig in and insist on her Noldorin name, but either way, he’s certain the king of the Grey Elves would finally meet his match for sheer stubborn pigheadedness.

He could feel Makalaurë’s eyes burning holes in his back as Thranduil’s steward led them to guest quarters.


	3. Into The Woods II

Buffy tried to keep calm as they approached the gates of Thranduil’s halls. Usually she liked visiting her Sindarin kin. Today, however, was not usual times. War was nearly upon them.

Legolas was accompanying Aragorn and the Ring to Mordor. The twins were planning to round up what Dunedain they could to bring as reinforcements to Gondor, Arwen was trying to stay calm despite being excluded from the war due to the restrictions of her future role as Queen of Gondor. (She would at least be able to help contain Tindomiel’s irritation at being given nothing more productive to do than babysitting.) Buffy herself was on her way to fight balrogs in the East- and those were the simple, easy parts.

The part that had sounded so much simpler in her head was in front of her right now – getting through Mirkwood without another Kinslaying.

She’d never really stopped to consider the logistics of ‘riding through Thranduil’s realm with _haru_ Makalaurë’. It wasn’t even until Glorfindel took her aside and suggested that he and Makalaurë should ride around the northern edges of the forest – risking themselves every step of the way, since there could be orcs or worse anywhere by now – that she realized just how badly Thranduil might react.

Menegroth was history to her. Thranduil had _lived_ it.

Allowing the two older elves to peel off with the hope of meeting up with them later was not a risk she was willing to take. Yes, she would have tried to do this all by herself if she had to. But even she thought taking on multiple balrogs solo might be pushing it. And the two of them were the only two elves she knew other than grandmother and Celeborn who had actually seen, let alone fought, these things before.

She’d really prefer not to have a repeat of ‘the mire of his blood’. And she’s so going to have words with her great-great-grandfather Turukano about that whenever she gets to Valinor. Seriously, who writes that down about their own brother’s death? Or lets someone else write it down? It was an image she could have done without, and one that had haunted her sleep after she’d read it. It was no comfort to imagine it haunting him as well.

Ironically, that image was what had started her quest to make sure that balrogs were officially extinct. She’d been hoping they were.

The elves didn’t know the saying “hope in one hand…”

She was thinking about introducing it. The Sindar would appreciate the earthiness, the Noldor would probably agree with the sentiment.

Years of research had led her to conclude that there were most likely three balrogs that had survived the War of Wrath and end of the First Age. One she didn’t have to worry about – Durin’s Bane was buried in the mines of Moria, and unlikely to emerge unless someone was dumb enough to go looking for it.  Even if it did, that would be Grandmother’s problem. (Fortunately, Grandmother had a ready solution in the army of the Galadhrim and her ring.) Two, however, were unaccounted for, not seen since the last year of the War of Wrath, when they had last been spotted fleeing northeast.

Aragorn may think that her travels over the last eighty years have been motivated by nothing more than her own whims and the invitations of her various friends and relatives. He’s only partially right. She’s spent much of the last fifty years tracking down Morgoth’s worst ideas to make sure that Sauron can’t use them to bite anyone in the butt. Killing dragons was no big deal if you could do it by stealth – and she’s got two dragon shaped notches in her figurative belt to show that she can be stealthy at need – but even elves had a hard time sneaking up on balrogs in their lair.

That doesn’t mean that she didn’t find out where the lairs were. Or work out what Sauron’s play would be.

She had every reason to expect that the two she’s going after will marching down past the Sea of Rhun to Mordor, and they would have a not so small army of orcs from the Iron Hills with them. It’s meant to be one of the many unpleasant surprises Sauron wanted to have up his sleeve when he moved on Gondor. Erebor might be closer to where the balrogs have been hiding, but Gondor was the real prize. The orcs of Ered Mithrin were more than enough to keep Erebor pinned down. Mirkwood and Lorien will have other pressing worries in the form of Moria and Dol Guldur.

Besides, she just knew Sauron was the type that would enjoy bringing creatures that were at the fall of Gondolin to the mannish city that had taken Gondolin as its model.

That army will never reach the Ash Mountains if she has anything to say about it.

She just has to get herself and her Nerdanelion grandfather through the Woodland Realm alive first – a task which had sounded a lot simpler before she could actually see how furious Thranduil was.

“You have utterly taken leave of your senses, Elrondiel! My study. Now!”

If the words themselves left her any illusion about just how much trouble she’s in this time, the language removed all doubt. Thranduil has reverted to the tongue of his youth, Doriathrin. The Sindarin in common use these days was based on a very different dialect.  She only knows it because Celeborn had taught it to all his grandchildren, even the one who was worst at languages.

On the bright side, that meant that even if the Scoobies stood right outside the door, they wouldn’t understand most of the yelling.

Thranduil deliberately left her standing while he sat. He got to be comfortable while she tried not to fidget or look guilty. He’s raked her over the coals enough times now for her to be familiar with his little tricks – even if he’d deny they were tricks.

Not speaking for several minutes was a new one.

Finally, in a flat tone of voice, he said a single word.

“Explain.”

She blinked. Extreme restraint was not usually his style when he’s upset. Which meant she was in uncharted territory, well beyond annoyed, irritated, aggravated, and out of patience.

“Explain what?” she asked, stalling for time while trying to figure out a polite, non-offensive way to say ‘please don’t kill him’.

He just waited.

Damn. She had been hoping for actual shouting.

“He is my kinsman,” she began carefully.

“That a princess of the Sindar should acknowledge such a relationship with a Kinslayer, let alone _that_ Kinslayer-“ he hissed.

“You said _explain_ , you could at least let me get the explanation out!” she protested. “Yes, he’s my kinsman. Like, multiple different ways and I’d probably need a diagram to explain them, and that’s _not_ all the fault of the Noldor either, cause at least one Sindar prince decided that marrying a descendant of Finwë was a good idea!”

She silently apologized to her grandfather for dragging him into this, because as riled as Thranduil was, Celeborn was definitely going to hear about this at length, even if he was older and higher ranking according to the Sindar.

Thranduil waved irritably for her to continue.

“Besides actual blood relationships, he raised my father, which makes him-”

“He _abducted_ your father,” Thranduil corrected through gritted teeth. “And your uncle. After slaughtering half of Sirion! And when the Kinslayers deigned to release them, Elros had been so affected by their captivity that he chose to become mortal!”

Whoa. That was a few more issues than she had bargained for. And probably more than she should try to address. Thranduil will _not_ want to hear that her father actually sounded pretty happy on the rare occasions he spoke of his ‘captivity’.

“Besides that, which perhaps you have been shielded from, how can you possibly defend bringing into my halls one whose hands drip with Sindarin blood? Need I really remind you of who destroyed Menegroth? Have you forgotten who slew Dior? Or his sons?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, or is this one of the ones I’m actually supposed to answer?” Buffy asked cautiously.

At his glare, she tried not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t her fault that he made it deliberately hard to tell which was which in these little ‘chats’. Apparently this one wasn’t rhetorical.

“I was taught that Celegorm and Dior killed each other, and Curufin somehow ended up dead not too far away and absolutely nobody missed him.”

Technically, his older brothers had missed him, but not only did she know better than to say that to a pissed off Sinda, she’s pretty sure even Makalaurë will admit that Curufin was a douche who liked to stir the shit just for giggles. The one time his name had been brought up in front of her grandfather – Celeborn, not Makalaurë- Galadriel hadn’t bothered to stop him calling Curufin all sorts of words Buffy hadn’t heard before. Her naughty Sindarin vocabulary had grown three sizes that day.

“Ah, so you _do_ acknowledge their deeds?”

“ _That_ one was rhetorical,” Buffy said triumphantly, because she’d fallen for that ruse before. “Maglor didn’t kill Dior, and Maedhros went searching for Elured and Elurin. Not that I have Maedhros up my sleeve. Just being clear.”

“Which in no way excuses the killing of other Iathrim,” Thranduil snapped. “Or how they harried your grandmother off a cliff.”

Buffy had heard that story straight from Makalaurë – she’s prepared to believe his version, because he was actually _there_ – and later from Glorfindel who’d spoken to Elwing herself. There was no harrying about it. Elwing had taken her fate into her own hands. She jumped, of her own free will, believing that the words of the Oath meant they would try to kill her even if she surrendered, and reasoning that if she went voluntarily, she’d at least get the joy of depriving them of the Silmaril.

Buffy respected that – and so, he had made very clear, did Makalaurë. She also had a feeling Elwing might be somewhat annoyed that both the Sindar and the Noldor had downgraded her moment of badass Kinslayer-thwarting into a passive affair in which she was chased over the edge in desperation or panic.

Unfortunately, this was not the time to fight that battle.

“Does it help if I tell you I need him for something that will probably get him killed?” she asked cautiously.

From the way she suddenly had Thranduil’s full attention, and he ceased interrupting, it probably did.

“I’m going balrog hunting.”

There it was – the look she or her brothers got at least once every time they visited, the one that said that Thranduil questioned both their sanity and their parents’.

She started to elaborate, but a single hand cut her off. The other hand Thranduil used to pinch the bridge of his nose, while he made a face that suggested that she pained him more than everything Sauron and Morgoth had ever done put together.

“Now, Elrondiel,” he said slowly in a tone so carefully measured it suggested an imminent explosion, “you should explain why under the sun, moon, and all Elbereth’s stars I should not lock you up for your own good until this war is over. Does your father know what you are doing?”

“Of course he does!” she replied, indignant that he even needed to ask. “Maybe you didn’t notice Glorfindel out there? Even if I snuck off to the war, he wouldn’t. You might not like him, but you know darn well he’s not the sneaking type!”

Thranduil’s pained expression hadn’t lessened, but he did nod acknowledgement of the fact that Glorfindel was honest to a fault. If she’d snuck out, or was acting against her parents’ wishes, he’d probably be trying to drag her kicking and screaming back home. He would not succeed, but he’d try.

“My parents know, my brothers know, Grandmother and Grandfather know. They all approved. They weren’t _happy_ about it, but they didn’t forbid me from going.”

She doesn’t quite catch all of what Thranduil muttered about Luthien, but apparently Arwen’s not the only one reminding Thranduil of her these days. She was pretty sure Thranduil didn’t mean it that way, but she’ll take it as a good sign… after all, her great-great-grandmother had achieved several impossible things. Arwen could have the looks if Buffy got the ‘does impossible things’.

“Leave Tinuviel out of it,” she suggested. “This really has nothing to do with history, except the part of it that inconveniently left a few stray balrogs running around. What do you propose I do? It’s not like anyone else is going to volunteer to go kill them. The grand strategy for what to do with the one in Moria consists of ‘let’s just hope it sleeps through this’!”

“Enough, young one,” Thranduil said.

His tone was quiet, but there was an absolute authority in it that she was hard pressed to defy.

“I’m sure you could give me reasons all day long on why you believe you must march off to your death. I find I would rather not hear them.”

Oh, man. He was going for the guilt. Even worse, she got the feeling he wasn’t doing it deliberately. How ridiculous was it that if she did end up dying, she was going to feel worse about how Thranduil would take it than her parents?

“Dying is not the plan, kinsman,” she assured him. “Orcs are going to die. Balrogs are going to die. I’m planning to live.”

He doesn’t look at all comforted by her words.

“ _Enough_. I do not wish to hear any more. Send your cousin in. If your father has sent messages, I will hear them from him.”

She wasn’t foolish enough to ask which cousin he meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, it's unlikely I'll be able to update for the next week or two - it looks to be a very busy couple weeks at work, and having just come off a 12+ hour day, I expect I'm going to be lucky to have enough time to sleep, nevermind writing.


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